


walk the fire

by mistilteinn



Series: just like a song [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blink and you'll miss it, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Slight feminization, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but he really be trying out here, feelings talk, geralt is just like REALLY bad at this, geralt is really great at fucking and fighting and not much else let's be honest, monster hunt, more feelings talk, nerd alert: geralt is growing as a person, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistilteinn/pseuds/mistilteinn
Summary: Geralt turns away from Jaskier’s delighted “you think I’m dainty?” and rolls his eyes.The hunt doesn’t go smoothly, but then - it never really does, when Jaskier’s involved.Geralt sometimes finds himself slipping back into old habits. Jaskier, for his part, refuses to humor any more of his witcher's emotional constipation.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: just like a song [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592488
Comments: 53
Kudos: 1431
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	walk the fire

**Author's Note:**

> right, well. this is probably the last bit of this particular series. i've really enjoyed writing this and i truly hope that you enjoy this installment! thank you for coming along this ride with me!
> 
> (title from "Adore You" by Harry Styles, because let's be honest, i deserve that)

They hear word of a particularly nasty garkain while passing a hamlet on the way to Sodden. Something uneasy settles inside of Geralt's gut and he tries unsuccessfully to convince Jaskier to stay behind at the inn while he hunts.

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to write an epic ballad about your battle if you won’t let me watch?” Jaskier laughs, as if Geralt has just told the funniest joke he’s heard in weeks. Of course, Geralt thinks to himself, after nearly a full month camping with only each other for company, that’s entirely possible.

“It’ll be dangerous,” he growls over his bowl of stew.

Jaskier smiles at him from across the table, glancing first at the wood separating them, then looks up through his lashes at the witcher. Geralt feels his heart thump in his chest and frowns. 

“You’ll protect me,” Jaskier says, voice as sweet as the honeyed ale he’s so fond of. Geralt feels his frown deepening, worry twisting his insides unpleasantly.

“You’re not coming,” he insists with finality to his tone.

Jaskier, of course, comes with him the next night. 

The cemetery is ancient, headstones worn to the point of anonymity, and some of the graves are now unmarked due to overgrowth and lack of care. It’s tragically romantic with the accompanying fog, even to Geralt’s rather uncouth sensibilities. 

He sees Jaskier’s gaze linger over a rickety old bench and pictures the bard sitting astride it, writing a great sonnet about young lovers separated by the shimmering veil of death. Or something.

The wind shifts almost imperceptibly and Geralt stiffens, inhaling deeply. The beast is near. His line of vision automatically tracks over to Jaskier, who has dutifully fallen behind and dropped his gaze to the sprigs of crabgrass at his feet.

That, at least, is a warning the bard seems to have taken to heart. Last night Geralt had spoken frankly in their shared bed, concern seeping unwittingly into his voice.

_“You must not look upon the garkain no matter what,” he said, brushing a callused finger over the sharp protrusion of Jaskier’s clavicle. “They hold the power to paralyze their prey with just a glance upon their visage.”_

_Jaskier turned a curious eye towards him at that, not unlike a flower turning to face the sun. He splayed a hand over Geralt’s chest before speaking, fingers tapping a quick rhythm over the muscle. “You mean to say that the creature we’re hunting is so ugly that just the sight of it will freeze me in my tracks? Wonderful - what a dramatic set up for my song.”_

_Geralt frowned at the small smile the bard sent him. “I’m not jesting, Jaskier. You must take all appropriate precautions.”_

_Jaskier, as always, returned his concern with playfulness, his voice light as a summer breeze and his touch fleeting. “What - you don’t want me getting bruised up, Witcher?”_

_Geralt stilled the bard’s movements, placing a hand over his, and met his gaze once more; sincerity weighed his words down, made them come out slowly. “There are precious few marks I wish to see upon your skin,” he began, raising Jaskier’s smaller hand in his for inspection._

_He brought it to his mouth and laid an open-mouthed kiss over the inside of Jaskier’s wrist, feeling the bard’s pulse flutter against his lips._

_He continued when he felt Jaskier’s eyes upon him, heard the question before it even left the young man._

_“The only marks I wish to see are those left by this mouth,” Geralt tapped Jaskier’s finger against his lips, startling a little laugh out of the bard, and laced their fingers together sweetly before finishing, “and these hands.”_

Geralt is musing over how glad he is that Jaskier has decided to listen for once in his damn life when the garkain attacks, yanking him from his reverie in a split second. 

It’s nasty, alright - half-starved and wounded already, and desperate enough in its movements that Geralt is able to land a harsh blow with his silver sword even though it’s got the advantage of surprising him.

The creature screams, its mouth twisting into a horrible void. It smells of death and Geralt snarls, shouting right back. They circle each other in the moonlight for a moment, each assessing the other for weakness. 

All of the sounds of the night have dissipated - it's as if the world around them has paused in order to observe the fight.

Geralt strikes first, attacking the beast’s right side. It appears to heavily favor its left leg and tries to dodge, stumbling at a crucial moment. 

It's luck more than anything else that allows the witcher to make contact.

Geralt slashes harshly, separating tissue from bone. He hears Jaskier gasp and curses when the creature turns to the bard and pounces, just missing the bite of his sword as he swings again.

He turns with unnatural speed and jumps after the beast, running it through just as it’s reached his companion.

Strangely, it’s already slumping over when he arrives, falling to the side easily as he shoves it away in his haste to get to Jaskier.

“Bard!” Geralt barks out, fear tightening his throat into something painful.

Jaskier looks fine, if a little shaken up. Driven by an instinctual sort of terror, Geralt grips Jaskier’s shoulders and roughly looks him over, checking for bites or scratches. He only loosens his grasp when Jaskier’s voice breaks through his mental fog, a gentle and persistent presence finding its way through the panic. 

“Geralt - Geralt! I’m alright, I’m okay - the garkain is dead! I slew it - I helped!” Jaskier’s chattering, cupping Geralt’s cheeks and holding him steady, his blue eyes almost luminous in the moonlight. The witcher blinks at him, the words slowly taking hold in his mind.

He covers Jaskier’s hands with his own absently and looks next to them at the corpse. His sword has run through its middle, yes, but he spies the beautiful handle of Jaskier’s dagger poking out through the creature’s jaw. It was already dead (or well on the way) when Geralt arrived.

He turns back to Jaskier, his mouth hanging open. 

“Garkain are known to paralyze their prey on sight,” he says.

Jaskier is still looking down at the corpse distastefully. He looks back up to Geralt with a half smile and asks, “perhaps only the faint of heart are affected?” 

Geralt looks down at him - hears the blood pumping through his veins, smells the adrenaline wafting off of his skin. It seems that his little flower has grown a spine of steel. 

“Hmm,” he says, considering.

\---

It turns out that Tinsind hates crossing rivers almost as much as Jaskier, if his vexed whinnies are to be believed. He stalls at the edge of the water thrice, each time refusing to step foot into it. Jaskier, for his part, tries to gently coax his mount into the water for upwards of twenty minutes, never losing patience or showing any signs of temper. 

He only takes a break when Tinsind bodily throws him off, claiming that the mule requires rest before grimacing as he limps across the path to a downed log and sits. Roach stands a few feet behind him, blithely grazing.

Geralt, who has until this point exercised admirable restraint, snaps. He glares at the beast and stalks over, gripping his halter so that he may not pull away. Tinsind’s ears flatten and he tries to toss his head, and Geralt tightens his grip. 

Geralt looks over his shoulder at the bard and speaks. “Jaskier, your ass is getting left behind - you’re just going to have to walk the rest of the way to Oxenfurt.”

The bard frowns at him from his seat, ever ready to defend his beloved donkey. Roach flicks an ear around to face them but keeps her head to the ground, feigning disinterest. 

Jaskier snaps back, “Tinsind is a noble steed, Geralt, and he’s no more of an ass than you are! You’re both stubborn as anything.”

Roach neighs as if in agreement, and Jaskier digs into his bag, holds out a handful of oats for her to nibble on while he raises his brows at Geralt. He mutters something to her that Geralt catches the tail end of, "- don't know why I thought it wise. Now there are _two_ of them."

Geralt rolls his eyes and turns back to glare at the topic of their discussion, who appears to be eyeing him with undisguised contempt. Geralt sneers at the donkey.

He hears Jaskier stand from his post and step in close, knows from the sound of his steps that a hand is placed gingerly on his bruised left hip. Jaskier bumps into Geralt gently, swaying the two of them. 

“I have an idea,” he says slowly, and Geralt frowns, looking down upon him. “Why don’t _you_ lead Tinsind across the river and _I’ll_ ride Roach?” 

“Fuck you,” Geralt answers automatically, and Jaskier breaks into a smile. 

Roach whinnies from behind them, clearly amused. 

\---

Jaskier insists on coming along on the next contract Geralt receives.

He doesn’t bother to argue this time. 

It’s a succubus, the nameless town’s alderman warns, prone to bewitching men and leaving them to their lust, allowing them to go nearly out of their minds with it before she returns to feed off of their energy.

“Don’t fall under her spell,” he says in a grave tone, looking between them before his gaze lingers on Geralt. “Lest ye both be driven mad with the sickness and tear into each other with the force of your desires. Beyond the shame, you, in particular, could do lasting damage to your fine-boned companion during the coupling.” 

Geralt turns away from Jaskier’s delighted “you think I’m _dainty?”_ and rolls his eyes, deigning to consider which potions he'll use for the fight, if any. 

The hunt doesn’t go smoothly, but then - it never really does, when Jaskier’s involved.

They come upon the succubus in the middle of a feeding, her beautiful human guise split open to reveal the monster within. 

Jaskier observes her for a moment through the brush and promptly says, “Men fall under _her_ spell? Are they _blind?”_

Geralt immediately shushes him, but it’s too late.

The succubus has taken notice of them and rises from her feast, blood dripping from her maw down over her neck and bare chest. She steps towards where they hide in the bushes, her human veil rapidly sliding back into place. Geralt curses and stands, pulling one of his swords out of its sheath.

Jaskier pops up behind him and helpfully offers, “D’you require a bib, milady? I think I may have one in my pack for the witcher. He’s a messy eater -”

“Bard!” Geralt bellows at the same time that the succubus screeches and shoves Jaskier back, ignoring his indignant yelp. 

Geralt dispatches the beast without much fanfare beyond that, but he can’t quell the anger simmering just under the surface of his skin. His mind flashes with images of Jaskier injured, Jaskier fallen under her wicked influence, Jaskier dead on the forest floor with a collar of red surrounding his white skin.

It isn’t until well after they get back to the tavern once they've claimed the reward for their kill that the anger and fear finally boil over. 

When they arrive, Jaskier is made of light - smiling and laughing and flitting about, hanging onto Geralt’s arm one moment and singing across the room the next. 

And Geralt.

Geralt is brooding. Sitting at the far end of the bar with an empty ale flagon in front of him, glaring at anyone who dares to come too close. 

He watches Jaskier perform for the locals, resentment and shame fighting in a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He can't even eat from the plate set in front of him.

When the patrons drunkenly pressure the bard into a third encore of “Toss a Coin to your Witcher,” he sighs and stands, deciding that he can bear no more of Jaskier’s exploits tonight.

\---

Geralt is roused from his meditation when Jaskier stumbles into their shared room at some point in the early morning, coins jingling in his pockets and giggles bubbling in his chest. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, the anger from earlier in the evening rushing back to the surface.

Jaskier pays him no mind, stripping off his silly blue doublet and shimmying out of his shoes and pants, leaving him in only an undershirt and his smallclothes. 

When he’s suitably underdressed, Jaskier drapes himself across Geralt’s lap as a warm weight and, normally, a welcome presence. 

Geralt shoves him off impatiently, a snarl on his lips. He’s cut off when Jaskier pushes at his chest ineffectively and snaps.

“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been in a mood ever since we’ve got back.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment before he pulls himself together, the anger spurring him on. The words come out harsh. “It’s time we parted ways, bard.” 

Geralt watches Jaskier’s jaw drop open, sees it snap shut in the near darkness of the room. 

It’s quiet enough that Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heart start to beat faster in his chest without trying, can hear how Jaskier is already breathing heavily. 

“What -” Jaskier starts, then cuts himself off. He sounded emotional initially, but when he starts again, his voice is unerringly steady. Geralt almost admires the man’s resolve. “Why do you want to do that?”

“You’re human,” Geralt says shortly, his own traitorous heart beating rapidly against his ribcage. 

He thinks for a moment that he’s sold it, that being human is all the explanation required in order to break this off. It’s worked dozens of times with dozens of affairs over the years. Everyone knows that humans don’t belong with witchers for extended periods of time. It’s easy. Simple.

Except it’s never simple with Jaskier, Geralt remembers a little too late. 

“What the fuck, Geralt,” he starts, his volume rising with each word. “Are you _shitting_ me? My _humanity?!”_

“You’re mortal! You could get hurt!” Geralt says quickly, trying to cut Jaskier off before he can work himself into a true rage. Their neighbors won’t appreciate shouting at ass o’clock in the morning. 

“So are _you!_ So could _you!”_ Jaskier says loudly, heat rising to his cheeks in two bright splotches. He stands from the bed and starts pacing, his own anger working its way out through movement in addition to volume. 

Geralt thinks for a moment that he’s never seen someone so beautiful as Jaskier, all fury and passion and life -

“My mortality and your mortality are different, and you know it!” Geralt stands as well, pissed at himself and Jaskier for this mess, for the hammering of his heart against his ribcage and the warm curls of affection taking up residence in his mind, making logical thought that much more difficult. 

“I _do_ know! That’s why I want to be _with_ you!” Jaskier shoots back, stepping in close. He grabs the neck of Geralt’s tunic to pull him in - and, yes, Geralt _could_ just wrench himself away, but something about the shine of Jaskier’s eyes roots his feet to the ground, his attention to the man in front of him. 

“It’s not safe to be with me,” Geralt says quietly, anger and fear and shame all fighting for the lion’s share of his attention.

 _“Gods,_ Geralt! I’m going to die by your side - we already knew that! Thank Destiny for it! One day - _if_ we’re lucky, I’ll be old and grey, and you’ll still be as you are today!” Jaskier snaps, gripping the fabric in his hand tightly. 

He fervently shakes his head when Geralt opens his mouth to protest and continues a little more softly. “Which is, admittedly, rather old and grey already.”

Jaskier ignores Geralt’s frown at that and speaks again, “The point is, _my_ forever and _your_ forever are very likely not the same, and I’ll be damned if you steal any more of mine with your stupid alpha witcher drama and point blank refusal to address your emotions. With all the love in the world, _please_ deal with your _shit._ I deserve that much at least for putting up with you thus far.”

Geralt swallows, his thoughts spinning. Shame wins out of all of the emotions battling in his stomach, and it chills him from the inside. His stomach drops and he feels empty.

“You’re right,” he starts, already making peace with what he is about to do. “You do deserve that. You deserve better than what I can give, more than I can provide - a house and children and a secure future -”

“Ah-ah! Stop that!” Jaskier interrupts, rudely snapping in front of Geralt’s face. “Who says I want any of those things? You’ve known me for nearing a decade now. Do children really seem to be high on my list of goals for the future?”

Geralt furrows his brow and finally shakes his head, ignoring the fact that six years does not a decade make. “I suppose not. But the danger -”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says firmly, reaching up to press a gentle hand against the witcher’s cheek. “I would follow you through the depths of hell and then gladly thank you for the tour.”

\---

And so it goes. Jaskier travels with Geralt, his stupid stubborn mule plodding dutifully along behind Roach every day. Geralt can’t even bring himself to resent the beast anymore.

\---

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs from above him. He sounds more exasperated than aroused. 

Geralt slows his movements for a moment and hears a few buttons roll away on the hard ground of their campsite into the darkness, presumably never to be seen again. 

Jaskier continues in the pause, apparently quite annoyed with his ruined clothes. “You can’t just ‘rip my bodice’ open every time you wish to bed me! This isn’t one of those bawdy songs from the pub.”

Geralt glances up from the planes of Jaskier’s tempting chest just long enough to see the bard making air quotes. He looks back down longingly to where his lips have recently closed around a rosebud nipple. 

“My finery costs money,” Jaskier insists, cupping Geralt’s cheek in his hand and bringing his gaze back up.

“Hmm,” he answers, running through possible responses. He chooses the one that seems most likely to sway Jaskier to his charms. “I’ll buy you a new bodice.”

“That’s not - I don’t even wear bodices, Geralt.” Jaskier answers after a stunned silence, sounding rather flustered. Geralt notices a flush crawling up his neck and stares intently, intrigued. “It’s a figure of speech,” Jaskier finishes, voice weaker now.

“And perhaps I’d like to see your figure in one.” Geralt says in a rumbling tone, admiring the way his large hands nearly span Jaskier’s waist, the curve exaggerated by the width the bard has to spread his legs in order to straddle Geralt’s lap. He wonders what the bard would look like all dressed up for him, and the mental image sends a curl of arousal down his belly.

Jaskier, correctly guessing his thoughts, intakes a sharp breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead from sweat and eyes are glittering with the remnants of their campfire. He’s a fucking vision, Geralt thinks inelegantly. Jaskier leans down, curving a hand round the back of Geralt’s head to bring him in close.

“Oh Witcher, you do delight me,” Jaskier whispers into the soft hair falling over Geralt’s shoulder; Geralt, in turn, suppresses a shudder and rolls them over on the blanket. 

Jaskier shakes with want when Geralt presses a firm palm between his legs, screws his beautiful eyes shut and clenches his jaw against the whimper threatening to escape. 

Geralt shushes him gently, unlacing his trousers with a practiced hand. Jaskier’s hard cock is leaking and curled proudly against the flat of his stomach. He spreads his legs gladly when Geralt pulls his smalls down, ever eager for the witcher’s touch. 

“Hands and knees, come on,” Geralt urges, running a soothing hand over Jaskier’s flank when he shivers and complies, whining under his breath all the while. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

Jaskier’s straining, his head hanging heavily. Geralt admires the taut planes of his back, traces a finger down the knobs of his spine. He can’t help himself; he dips his tongue into each of the dimples that sit just above the curve of Jaskier’s comely bottom. 

“Geralt,” the bard says, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. 

Geralt hums in acknowledgment and spreads Jaskier wide, one hand nearly covering each cheek. Jaskier trembles, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and jumps against Geralt’s face when he leans in, stubble brushing against his most sensitive skin, and mouths against his hole insistently. 

Jaskier curses colorfully and presses back, opening for the witcher beautifully. Geralt’s drawn in by the velvet heat, licking into Jaskier’s body again and again until the bard is sobbing into his arms, long since slumped down onto his elbows. He pulls back for a second, rests his forehead against Jaskier’s ass.

“Please, more, more, please,” Jaskier’s whispering, voice breaking in the middle of his pleas.

Geralt nods and sits back up on his knees, leaning to the side of their bedroll to where he knows Jaskier has stashed a bottle of oil for just this purpose. Once slicked, he presses a finger in without preamble, groaning openly at the press of Jaskier around him. Jaskier whines pitifully and Geralt lets out a shaky breath, fitting a second finger in easily. He begins to move, stretching Jaskier in a way that he knows will have the bard squirming deliciously in the morning, a pleasant ache all the way down to the core of his being. 

At Jaskier’s urging, Geralt slips a third finger inside and slows down, taking his time with the silky heat inside of Jaskier and ignoring his protests.

He curls his fingers almost cruelly against Jaskier’s most sensitive spot, his other hand wrapped around the bard’s thigh to hold him still. Jaskier’s back arches, the curve nearly obscene, and he cries out as he tries to shift away from the fantastic pressure building at the base of his spine. Geralt holds him steady, stroking the bump insistently, and watches as Jaskier’s cock drips onto the blanket underneath them, red and swollen and neglected. 

When Geralt feels the tension in Jaskier’s body reaching what he knows to be its peak, he pulls back and leaves the bard empty and squalling. 

“You didn’t really think that you would be allowed to come without my cock, did you?” Geralt asks the sobbing mess in front of him, his tone perhaps a touch mocking. Jaskier shakes his head slowly and sniffles, gasping when Geralt gives his ass a firm tap. 

“Up now,” he says more gently. “I want my hands in your hair and my cock in your ass when you spend.” 

Jaskier nods unsteadily and shakily pushes himself up onto his hands again. Geralt takes pity and wraps an arm underneath Jaskier’s armpits, hauling him up so that his back is pressed against Geralt’s chest. Jaskier slumps backward almost immediately, resting his weight against Geralt fully. 

Geralt lays his hand at the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and presses down with the barest amount of pressure, watching Jaskier’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes fall shut. Insecurity snakes its way up his spine when he considers how completely Jaskier trusts him, how little he deserves any of this - 

“Hey,” Jaskier rasps out, cracking one eye open. “None of that overthinking. You’re supposed to be fucking me into next week right now, you great oaf. Get to it.”

Geralt barks out a shocked laugh and turns, pressing a kiss against the bard’s sweaty temple. He reaches below them to where his own cock is sitting between his legs, impossibly hard and impossibly close, and shifts, pressing the head over Jaskier’s crease. It catches against his oiled entrance and Jaskier twists in his grip, knots a hand into his hair and kisses him desperately, all teeth and tongue and desire. 

The lust burns through his body and his thighs shake from the control required to not just fuck into Jaskier, to take and take and claim what’s his and take again.

“Make me yours,” Jaskier sighs into his mouth, and Geralt can’t do anything but oblige. Sparks scatter under his skin when he breaches Jaskier, inch by torturous inch, pulling the bard securely into his lap. 

When he’s fully sheathed, Jaskier breathes in shakily, eyes lolling back. “Sometimes I forget how fucking big you are,” he mutters, rolling his hips and driving Geralt half-mad. “Split me in half, why don’t you -”

He cuts off with a high cry when Geralt thrusts powerfully, jostling them both mightily. Once Geralt’s started, it’s like a spell has taken over his body, is guiding his movements, and all he can do is chase the white-hot pleasure skittering through his veins, follow the pressure building in the lowest reaches of his loins, and fuck into Jaskier like it’s the only thing he’ll do in this life.

The bard gives as good as he gets, yanking Geralt’s hair harshly and mouthing along his jaw, digging sharp nails into the meat of Geralt’s bicep, sending shocks of pleasure outward from every place that their bodies connect. 

Geralt winds one hand into Jaskier’s dark hair and pulls his head back to expose his neck, the other hand wrapping around the bard’s neglected cock. Jaskier cries out brokenly and Geralt doesn’t even try to resist the urge to put his mouth on the pale column of his throat, suck a claiming mark, sink his teeth into that tender flesh. 

“Mine,” Geralt manages amid the heat burning him from the inside out, and Jaskier frantically nods against him.

It takes one, two, three pumps of his hand and Jaskier’s tensing in his arms, his seed splattering his own chest and stomach. The bard goes boneless once he’s spent, making soft sounds as Geralt continues pounding into him.

The clench of Jaskier’s heat around Geralt helps to spur him over the rapidly approaching edge and he flies, riding the waves of pleasure. He continues thrusting into Jaskier as he peaks, filling the bard with his spend. 

Jaskier seems to come back into himself rather quickly, groaning pathetically when Geralt pulls out and lays him gently on the bedroll, still facedown. 

Geralt eyes his leaking hole for a moment before he turns away, busying himself with finding a suitable rag to clean both of them with. 

He wipes himself with some scrap of what used to be Jaskier’s finery as the bard makes a small sound, shifting so that his legs are spread just the smallest bit. 

Likely sore from their tumble, Geralt finds himself thinking and drops the rag to massage Jaskier’s upper thighs and buttocks. He presses into Jaskier’s flesh firmly, working the tense muscles before any knots can form, and Jaskier turns his head to the side, lets out a truly remarkable moan. His eyes are still closed, but Geralt can see the way his brow tenses, the way his jaw falls slack whenever Geralt strays too close to an old bruise.

When he’s finished, Jaskier resembles a puddle on their shared bed - all loose muscle and splayed out limbs. Geralt shifts him over and curls around the bard, making himself comfortable in warmth of the autumn night. 

Geralt is frustratingly close to sleep when Jaskier huffs and sighs, stretching against him and rolling his neck. 

He cracks an eye open in acknowledgment and finds Jaskier watching him. He waits, well aware that his bard requires no invitation to share his thoughts.

“I want that again,” Jaskier says, managing to surprise him.

“Tonight?” Geralt asks, propping himself up. He glances down at his cock, spent and satisfied. Perhaps in a few hours…?

“No, idiot,” Jaskier answers, rolling his eyes. Geralt doesn’t bother arguing, just waits for the bard to speak again, as he always does. “I want to be made yours every day, just like that. Preferably in a bed next time.” 

“Well,” Geralt says, rather lost for words. The emotion rising in his chest makes it hard to think.

The silence between them stretches thin and Geralt uncharacteristically breaks it, trying to give Jaskier well-deserved insight into his feelings. 

“Perhaps after a nice, thorough bath.”

Geralt realizes his mistake when Jaskier frowns mightily at him, his dark brows knitting together adorably. “Well, great apologies that I’m not some _perfumed whore,_ Geralt! D’you really think I smell that bad? It’s from _you_ -”

“Fuck - no,” Geralt interrupts quickly. The words spill out of his mouth faster than he intends, and he doesn’t edit them down the way that he normally does, hiding his thoughts and emotions behind ten different layers of protection. “I meant - I meant after _I_ bathe you. Slowly and adoringly, as you deserve. Lovingly.”

Jaskier’s expression shifts into something wondrous as Geralt’s mind catches up with his mouth, his stomach clenching with sudden fear. 

Jaskier speaks in a small voice, for once meant only for Geralt and the stars above. “You mean - _that?_ You love me?”

Geralt forces his mouth to open, but he can’t get any words out. It’s as if he’s used them all - or, more likely, it’s as if Destiny herself has heard the mess he’s just made and unmade and won’t allow him the opportunity to ruin the best part of his life. Again. 

After a moment, he simply snaps his jaw closed with an audible click and nods, following easily when Jaskier pulls him in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this was written on my birthday, so like, happy my birthday to everyone? Enjoy some feelings and porn? Leave a comment and let me know what you think! I love hearing from you all, and your support means the world to me!


End file.
